My Three Husbands (8 page)

“I'm glad my boyfriend's not built like that,” Jamey said, clicking the order into her computer. I pictured her with long nails and a headset. “I got enough size problems with him as it is. I'm four foot eight and he's six foot ten.”

“Wow.” I pictured a little piece of chicken stuck on the end of a long skewer. “Okay, I also need three of that new Wonderdong. The one that vibrates and shoots water.” I covered the phone and said, “Hi, Bruce,” real sweet, as he hurried toward the registers with his empty cash bags. “I'm doing the reordering, but I need to talk to you before you go.”

He nodded.

“Okay, Jamey, you got that so far? I also need eleven buttplugs—the one called Rearender.”

“The one with the little sticky-outy things in it?”

“Correct. Four dildos. Three Wonderdongs. Seven cockrings.”

“And a partridge in a pear tree,” she sang.

I turned away and tried to keep from cackling. “Right. Three cockrings of the adjustable leather kind with silver studs, two of that new Velcro model, and two of the rubber.”

I saw Bruce surreptitiously strum his crotch. He was staring up at the surveillance monitors.

“A dozen of the crotchless edible panties,” I continued.

“Eeuuh,”
Jamey groaned. “You think anyone actually eats those things? I mean, what are they made of?”

“Some, like, kind of flavored vegetable fiber. They really itch, too.”

“I wouldn't want to see my boyfriend eating a pair of my panties. Would you? Like, gross. Like, what are you, a dog? Like, eat me but leave my panties alone.” She clicked in the order and verified all the price and shipping information.

Before I hung up with Jamey she said, “So you having a traditional church wedding? White gown and bridesmaids and all that pretty shit?”

“No,” I murmured. “We can't afford that.”

“What can't we afford?” Bruce asked. He opened the first register and stared into the cash drawer like a glutton eyeing a smorgasbord.

“Not Federal Express,” I said. “Just send the order UPS surface.”

Bruce nodded approvingly.

“Gotcha,” Jamey said. “Happy honeymoon.”

Bruce's face is pitted with acne scars but his salt-and-pepper hair is always perfect, swept back and up in a kind of hairsprayed semi-pompadour that jiggles when he walks. His rabbitlike front teeth don't fit behind his lips so he always looks like he's about to start gnawing on something. Of late he's taken to wearing Porsche wraparound sunglasses and overdosing on cologne. Bruce is a denim and leather kind of guy. He's a baby boomer, around fifty, and really starting to paunch out. His pants and shirts are always like a size too tight. He's about four inches shorter than me.

Trying to butter him up, I sniffed and said, “Mm, what's that sexy cologne you're wearing, Bruce?”

He puffed himself up a little. “Adonis Poor Oms.”

“I'll bet your girlfriend loves it.”

“We split,” he said. “I'm single again. You wanna go out to dinner?”

“Bruce,” I said, “listen, I haven't told you yet, but I'm getting married.”

“When's your last day?” Suddenly he wouldn't look at me. His attention was fixed on the cash in the register.

“My last day?”

“You're quitting, right?”

“I wasn't planning on it,” I said.

“Everybody quits. Why should you be any different?” He licked his thumb and began counting out twenty-dollar bills.

“I thought maybe I could just take a few days off. For my honeymoon.”

He gave me a startled glance. I could see the shadows of his eyes behind the dark glasses. “A honeymoon?”

“Yeah. We're going to Pine Mountain Lodge.”

“Whoa-ho-ho. Is your husband loaded or what? That place costs a fortune. I just seen a story on it in the paper.”

“My dads are taking us. Free.”

“Wait a minute. You're going on your honeymoon with your father?”

“Fathers. My dad and my stepdad.”

“I thought I'd heard of everything.” Bruce was so puzzled that he stopped counting out money. “You mean, these guys were both married to your mother and now they're going on a honeymoon with you?”

“No, my stepdad is my dad's partner,” I explained. “They're lovers.”

“Oh.” He nodded. “The one named Whitman, is he your real father or your stepfather?”

“How do you know Whitman?”

“He called me.”

I felt panicky, like a hand was clamping down on the back of my neck. “Whitman did? When?”

“When you started working here. He identified himself as your father.”

My mouth went dry. “He did?”

“He made me promise I'd never have you work at night. And that someone would always watch to make sure you got out to your car safe.” He lowered his voice. “I wasn't supposed to tell you.”

My cheeks were burning. I was so embarrassed. It was like being a teenager and having your overprotective mom pick you up at school.

I couldn't believe Whitman would meddle in my life that way.

Bruce took off his glasses. His eyes looked bloodshot, tired. “Why do you want to work here at all, babe? You're not a sleazy girl. You could be a nice secretary somewhere. Or a nurse.”

“I've been a good employee, haven't I? I haven't asked you for a raise or health benefits. I haven't missed a day of work.”

“You've only been here a month.”

“All I want is four days off. From the fourth. That's all I'm asking for. I'll be back next Monday.”

He pointed with his chin toward the rack of Phantastic Phantasy lingerie. “Go pick out one of them Patty Cakes Baby Doll Negligees,” he said.

I didn't know what Bruce was after but did as I was told. The lingerie we sold was the kind of stuff I used to model. It's the kind of stuff men buy for girlfriends and wives who are usually too ashamed of their bodies to wear it. Patty Cakes (designed and made by a drag queen in Taiwan) was a line that was supposed to make you look like a sexy little girl. The set included a pair of satin-crotched panties and a little see-through bed jacket edged with soft downy feathers and tied at the throat with a satin ribbon.

“Hold it up, babe,” Bruce said. “Lemme see.”

He sounded like one of the guys I used to model for. I held up the Baby Doll negligee. It was supposed to be light and delicate as gossamer but it was made out of some stiff synthetic material that felt like a Halloween costume and crackled with static. I blew on the feathers and twirled around.

Bruce's eyes were glued on me. He held a wad-ful of twenty-dollar bills in one hand. I couldn't see what the other hand was doing. “It's yours,” he said, turning back to the cash drawer. “Wear it on your honeymoon and think of me.”

H
ow do you end up with the people you end up with, that's what I'd like to know. Out of all the billions of people you could possibly meet, why them? Is it, like, destiny?

In that final countdown of hours before my marriage to Tremaynne, I found myself flashing back to my first two husbands and my relationship with JD. While a Vietnamese girl gave me a manicure and a pedicure, one of my mom's wedding presents, I reflected on my life up to now. It was July 3. The nail salon was decorated with flags and crepe-paper foldout rifles. Everyone was super-patriotic about July 4 now. It was an entirely different holiday from what it used to be before terrorists blew up the World Trade Center.

“Whucullanail?” the girl asked, showing me her tray of polishes.

“Black.”

“Oh, you go funeral?”

“No,” I said, “I'm getting married tomorrow.”

The first guy I married was Sean Kowalski. Sean was a convicted felon. I don't know why I married him. Yes, I do. I wanted to get away from my mom.

I was nineteen and ready for whatever came next. I tried the army, thinking the discipline would be good for me. (Maybe it was, but I never stuck around to find out.) Then I enrolled in modeling school, where they told me to lose weight and get my teeth fixed. I didn't want to go to college and I didn't want to work and most of all I didn't want to live at home anymore. That's when I met Sean.

He drove a souped-up royal blue Grand Prix. He drove fast. He smoked. He drank. He scared me, but I kept seeing him because I liked the fizz of excitement, never knowing what he'd do next. He had a job selling used trucks out in Gresham.

When Sean asked me to marry him, I couldn't see any reason why I shouldn't. Mom was supportive but the dads weren't. “Your future husband uses double negatives, says
ain't,
and called me
dude,”
Whitman said bluntly after meeting him. “He's ten years older than you, wears cheap cologne, and sells used cars. Would you please tell me what you see in this man?”

What I saw was my escape from my mother. But of course I didn't tell the dads that. If I had, they would have made a counter-proposal that I move in with them. And we'd already tried that three years before.

I didn't tell the dads or Mom about Sean's background as a felon (forgery and embezzlement). That part of his life didn't matter to me. If anything, it added a bit of luster to his otherwise bleak background as a child of foster homes and juvenile detention centers. He said he'd made a couple of mistakes and paid for them. I felt sorry for him, the way you do for dogs in the pound.

We got married in the apartment Mom and I were living in at the time. The wedding felt like a funeral. There was no real joy in me, my mom, the grim-faced dads, or any of my four guests. When I realized what was happening, I lost my nerve. I was upstairs getting dressed. “I can't do it,” I squeaked to my mom. “My legs aren't, like, working.”

“We can call it off,” my mom said eagerly. “If you're not ready, sweetheart, don't do it. I'm not afraid to march down there and tell everyone it's not going to happen.”

“What do you really think of him, Mom?”

“What I think doesn't matter,” she said. “You're the one who has to live with him.”

Trust her never to give me a prejudiced opinion of anybody. “What did the dads say to you about him?”

“Well, Whitman's not shy about giving his opinions. He said Sean was a sleazeball loser.”

My stomach churned. “What about Daddy?”

“Your father doesn't like him either. He thinks you could do much better. He's sick that you're doing this instead of going to school.”

I felt really fatalistic, like a convict who knows she can't escape but has to try anyway. I made it all happen, almost like a game, and now a husband-to-be was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs. I went to the window and looked into the branches of the big elm tree outside. When I was a minor drug addict in middle school, I used to escape from the house by climbing down that tree at night. I stood there thinking maybe I should shinny down right now.

But I didn't.

I went through with the wedding.

I had to show them that I knew what I was doing. And I had to get out of my mom's house.

We stayed married for nine months. (Whitman calls it my “starter marriage.”) In the beginning, Sean was tender. But he drank so much that I could never count on him for anything. His real love was Wild Turkey. He'd drink until he passed out.

I felt like I was supposed to make a home for him. But it was like a game of make-believe. I didn't have a clue about living with a man. I tried to do those wifely things I'd seen on reruns of
The Brady Bunch
and
Bewitched,
but I quickly realized that what looked fun on TV was a big fat bore in real life. It just didn't give me a thrill to clean the cardboard-walled apartment we lived in, overlooking I-405, or to cook dinner by heating up frozen meals in the old microwave Mom had given us.

In bed Sean was a Johnny-Come-Quickly. Foreplay was a dirty word to him. And he had this weird thing about my rear end that I just couldn't get into. I was on birth control so he refused to wear a rubber. Looking back, it's a miracle that I didn't catch some STD.

I just couldn't feel like a grownup, no matter how I tried. Most of the time I was bored out of my gourd. I got Daddy to pay for my tuition at a junior college and started hanging out with some girls I met in Women's Lit night classes. After class discussions of
Jane Eyre
or
The Country of the Pointed Firs,
we'd go out to clubs so the single girls could meet guys and the married ones could pretend they were single again.

I never cheated on Sean with a guy. But I did meet JD and fall in love with her while I was still married to him. She was up on stage, singing “Stay Away, Bitch,” when I first saw her.

Funny, all the things you don't see or want to see before you get married. It turned out that Sean had a violent temper. Weird things would suddenly set him off. He'd smash stuff and make threats and bellow about how he was going to fix So-and-So, who'd cheated him. Then he started getting jealous. He hated it that I was going to school. “What're you learnin' there in Women's Clit?” he'd mock. He accused me of flirting. He'd say things like, “I saw you shaking your tits at that asshole in the gas station.”

Half the time he was right. I was always on the lookout for someone better. I was ready to bail, but I didn't know how to get myself out of what I'd gotten myself into.

I never asked the dads over. I was too embarrassed. The freeway noise was so loud you practically had to shout. Everything we had was mismatched, cast-off, hand-me-down. And Sean was really homophobic.

“Them dudes are sick motherfuckers,” he said once.

That pissed me off. “Are you talking about my dads?”

“I'm talkin' about queers.”

“You're talking about my dads,” I said. And he was talking about me, too, because by that time I'd had my first lesbian experience with JD.

“I seen their house that one time you took me over there,” Sean said. “You'd get all their shit if they croaked, right? How much you think they're worth?”

That scared me.

Sometimes I'd go over to Mom's and we'd cry together. Sometimes Grandma would come over and cry with us. She'd been through four husbands, “each one worse than the last.”

“Sometimes, honey, it's better to divorce right away,” Grandma advised me, “before he drags you down any further.” Grandma hated all men, but especially the ones she'd married. She didn't trust a single one of them. She'd actually needlepointed a sampler that said, “If it has a prick, it is a prick.”

One night Sean accused me of making eyes at some guy in Pizza Hut. He slapped me. I flashed on Mom getting belted by Jerri. No way. I was not going to take physical abuse. I packed my stuff and moved in with JD.

Sean wheedled me back a couple of times. I was too weak-willed to say no. Then he'd drink, blow up, and whack! It enraged him that I was living with JD. “Are you my fucking wife or a fucking dyke?” he'd scream. “Did you catch it from those sick motherfucking dads of yours?”

Every time I left him, JD would take me back in. For a while, it was very dramatic. They fought over me. I liked that.

There was no property to settle, so finally I got Sean to agree to a cheap do-it-yourself divorce. It's this kit you buy, with all the necessary papers and instructions. But I made sure the dads were with me when I went over there for his signature. They acted like bodyguards.

The last I heard of Sean was through Mom. One day she got a phone bill for eight hundred bucks. Most of the calls had been made to phone-sex lines and charged to her number. The phone company traced the calls to Sean Kowalski, only by that time my first husband had completely disappeared. For all I knew, he was on the lam.

 

 

What do lesbians do on their second date?

They rent a moving van.

It's an old joke, but there's some truth in it.

After Sean came the period of living with JD. Mom approved. The dads were flabbergasted but supportive.

“My dear,” Whitman said, “you don't
have
to be a lesbian, you know. You don't have to feel obligated.”

“I don't.”

“It wasn't because of us, was it?” Whitman asked, all concerned. “I mean, your father and I never encouraged you to be a dyke, did we?”

“No, Whitman.”

“I mean, you've always seemed so relentlessly heterosexual. Ever since you were twelve and the men used to whistle at you in New York.”

“Just because men whistle at you doesn't mean you're straight,” I pointed out.

He turned to my dad. “Maybe she takes after you and she's bisexual.”

“I'm not bisexual,” Daddy said.

“Well, you were married,” Whitman said. “Twice. And you did sire a child. I'm the only virgin in this family.”

“Mom's bisexual, Dad's gay, you're a virgin, so what? That doesn't have anything to do with my sexual choices.”

“Of course it does,” Whitman insisted. “You've been surrounded by deviants since you were five years old. You weren't raised with any kind of religion, so you never developed a disapproving attitude. You just accepted it all. I'll bet you don't even feel guilty when you lick JD's pussy, do you?”

My cheeks flamed. I was shocked that he could be so vulgar. “No! Why should I?”

“You shouldn't,” Whitman said. “But just because everyone around you is queer, don't think your life as a lesbian is going to be easy.”

But why shouldn't it be easy? I'd met this really cool woman and we had this instantaneous attraction. I didn't have to worry about hiding it from any of my parents. I didn't have to worry about getting pregnant.

JD was riding the crest of a wave, so she was exciting to be around. For a while, it looked like her band, Black Garters, was going to make it big. She had a cult following among Portland's huge dyke population and played gigs in most of the straight clubs, too. Her band even played the coveted ten o'clock spot during the Rose Festival down at Waterfront Park.

I loved being her Primary Groupie. I loved her creativity. I loved being in on the endless drama of a band. They were always yakking about
producers
and
labels
and potential
contracts
and
moving down to L.A.
I floated along, as JD's girlfriend, and felt like I was a part of it all.

I was there in the studio when they made their one demo tape. I'm the one who arranged the photographer for their CD cover. That cover, my idea, was so cool. The band members all had their bare legs in the air with their high heels touching.
Black Garters,
it said,
Hoseless.
Too bad the demo never got a commercial release.

Being a lesbian didn't present any weird psychic shocks for me. It seemed completely natural. Comforting, even, after the boring terrors of trying to be Sean's wife. Living with JD was so much more exciting. JD's house reminded me of my mom's when I was growing up. There were always women hanging around. I guess as a first-time lesbian, I was kind of naive. Only slowly did it dawn on me that half of them were in love with JD. JD didn't discourage adoration. She accessorized with women.

And she'd slept with most of them. The air was thick with simmering melodrama and jealous intrigue. I floated above it all because I was the undisputed number-one concubine in the harem.